Sunday Morning

I went for a walk into the pasture today

To look for myself, and to maybe look for God

My sudden appearance alarmed the dozing cows

Whose bellowing then disturbed the wild ducks nestled

Within the woods --and then woke the dog who galloped

Toward me, smiling furry face to join my journey

We walked along the hoof trodden paths through the woods

To the lower most end of the eastern section

A squirrel scampered away as I crunched through the leaves

January dew on a not so cold morning

I glimpsed for a moment a shadow of myself

The fifteen year old girl who loved the pasture walks

And she pointed me toward a row of steady trees

That marked the midway point of the hill towards the road
Standing there so still, with no leaves to evidence

If they stood there alive, or if they stood there dead

The only movement was of the slow moving clouds

Passing behind their limbs, bringing a chance of rain

Followed by a cold front (according to forecast)

They stood as three groups of figures sculptured—displayed

The first was two embracing – one slumped and leaning

On the other that stood more solid, tall and strong

Arms wrapped around and supporting the smaller one

The second, a cluster, a chaotic family

Flailing with twists and turns, comically connected

By weaving muscadine vines, the longest one held

Like a jumprope between the tallest two members

And finally the third, was leaning to one side

Half of it was gone – cut away at the trunk’s fork

Separated, either by nature or by man

Any evidence of its existence was gone
Except for the void it left upon what remained

And it reached up toward the sky, instead of outward

For there was nothing there beside it to embrace

Digging deep into the earth to strengthen its grip

Determined to survive—it would bare leaves in spring

I studied the trees with my camera and my poem

I did not find myself there within the pasture

I did however take a few pictures of God

Ugly Ovals

She looked up in the night sky

And said mom look at that star                                              winter snow

It has the shape of a star

When it’s really a circle

A ball of fire spinning

Way out there in outer space

Most nights they look like circles

But tonight looking from here

That one there looks like a star

Why are all shape names not things

A circle is a circle

Just like a square is a square

So why do they name a shape

After a thing, like a star

When the shape doesn’t really

Look like the real thing at all

Like a heart for example

It doesn’t look like the shape

It’s just an ugly oval

Response from Uncle Dennis...

O yes, Lillie.  The heart is an oval and the stars aren't really star shaped. 

But, that's only through the mind's eye.

When you look at it through the heart's eye, it can really be much more. 

And yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus! 

So squint when you look at stars,

imagine the heart as two ovals in love making a valentine

and look at your parents as they age.

Don't they look a little more like Santa?

Uncle Dennis

Memaw's Hot Cocoa

Memaw made some hot cocoa                   peace

In a big pot on the stove

Just the cocoa, and sugar

Boiled with milk and vanilla

We would sit in her rockers

Next to the kitchen wood stove

And with her biggest needles

We would string the cranberries

Alternating with popcorn

To decorate the old tree

That I would make her drag out

At the start of December

And I would gather gumballs

That fell from the backyard tree

Painting them gold and silver

As ornaments for the tree...

Today as November ends

I’m decorating my house

But I stopped for just a bit

To stir up some hot cocoa

And remember her

Memaw Made Pies

Memaw would make pies                   restless

Through all the seasons

Her specialty was apple

Using the small, tart green ones

That fell from the tree

Beside of the fence

We’d gather them together

In big white buckets

Peeling them on the back porch

With the rusty butcher knife

As we spoke of family

Of life…and of dreams

As the apples boiled

Into a buttery sauce

She would flour the counter

And roll out the dough

As the red of the kitchen

Was dusted in a light snow

Then her daughters would gather

Around the kitchen table

Sharing their worries

And a piece of pie

venture

much farther                               Scarborough Fair

than the eyes see

thoughts travel

with the breeze

over the ocean

to a time

and a place

where no compass

can guide others

to venture

old sleds

Days on the farm                sweet bells

Were always cherished

Nana’s kitchen

And Granddaddy’s lap

But a measure of snow

Added to a winter’s day

Awakened the childhood

Making it truly

Magical

music fades

her words

and her songs                   music fades

change

with the seasons

so I struggle

to capture

the melodies

of her laughter

so the memory

will remain

when her youth

and the music

fade